


Faith

by butteredflame



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: "Do you know what kept me standing through all those years of exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen."--As a NYT reviewer for GoT recently said, How does pain enter the body and what happens when it leaves? Here I try to answer in a set of companion drabbles to the series: S7, Jonerys style.





	1. Now and Always (Dragonstone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like to see direct quotes from the show, turn back now. XD If you've decided to stay, welcome. I hope you enjoy!

**Jon I**

 

“For centuries, our families fought side by side on the battlefield. I ask you to pledge your loyalty, once again, to House Stark. To serve as our bannermen and come to our aid, whenever called upon.”

They struck their swords into the aged stone floor and kneeled as their ancestors had: the Karstarks of Karhold and the Umbers of Last Hearth. Jon didn’t want to see children kneel any longer, so he ordered them to stand. They followed his orders with wide, startled eyes. He felt the sharp eyes of his vassal Northern lords and the lords of the Vale as he tapped a gloved finger on the table top. He took a deep breath.

“Yesterday’s wars don’t matter anymore. The North needs to ban together. _All_ the living North. Will you stand beside me, Ned and Alys, now and always?” 

“Now and always,” the children said.

The hall sounded with cheerful banging and shouts. Satisfied, Jon smiled. Though it was but a small victory, he knew that each day, such things allowed another day to fight, survive and live. The men, women and children of the North would find Spring, _together_.

With his reign as King in the North, Jon would see to it.

_____

 

However, only a few moments later, Jon’s mood had begun to sour. He’d just entered the battlements with Sansa at his side, discussing their differed matters during the meeting.  She had undermined him and he told her as such. But she disagreed, and she wouldn’t listen. They had both lost Father and Robb; they both felt the urge to learn from their mistakes. He didn’t understand what she thought she knew, that he didn’t. If anything, she was wrong, for all she wanted was to tear _everything_ down. Such short-sighted decisions made him wary, almost distrustful of her council.

Now a new matter had landed in their laps. _Dark wings, dark words._ He’d found the old saying had truth; and so it was, once again. Gazing into the swaths of snowbank just before the Wolfswood, Jon listened to Sansa’s appeals to strike at Cersei Lannister. _I’ve had my fair share of queens,_ he thought, remembering Queen Selyse Baratheon and her fire-worshipping men _. But even if I hadn’t…do you think me dim, sister?_

“There’s a thousand miles between us and Cersei,” he said hotly. “Winter is here. The Lannisters are a Southern army. They’ve never ranged this far north.”

“You’re the military man, but I know her,” Sansa insisted. “If you’re her enemy, she won’t stop until she’s destroyed you. Everyone who’s ever crossed her, she’s found a way to murder.”

Jon’s brow furrowed deeply. She didn’t even know…

“You almost sound as if you admire her.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so accusing, yet when the words were out he found them almost fitting.

“I learned a lot from her,” Sansa said quietly. Though she gazed into the Wolfswood, it was clear her mind had taken her far away. Jon knew what he wanted to ask of her, but he was also aware that such a thing required a confidant, which he was not. He touched her elbow with deliberate gentleness.

“Would you like to do the things she’s done, Sansa?”

“Of _course_ not.” Her eyes said, _How could you think such a thing?_ “She is a spiteful, hateful woman. She was only gentle to her children. However, now that they are dead...I am not surprised to hear of what happened at the Sept of Baelor.”

The great Targaryen sept of the Faith of the Seven had been splintered into pieces, burned to ash, returned to the sand that had once formed the stone. And with it, thousands of lives were extinguished in mere moments, including members of the Royal Court and the Tyrell heirs to Highgarden. Winterfell had received the news three days after it happened. Yet still thinking of it sent a chill Jon had only felt when thinking of the Others.

“So,” continued Sansa, “don’t you dare think of me in her likeness. Swear it to me, Jon.”

“I don’t swear easily, Sansa.”

Her gaze was fierce. _We aren’t children anymore, and you know it._ He held his ground. _They chose me._

“What do I have to prove to you, Jon?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I’m not asking you to sew your mouth shut and keep your opinions to yourself. But you must understand… I need you by my side, Sansa. Not in front of me.”

It was a long moment…until she lowered her gaze, suddenly as mute as the snows falling on their heads. He shook his head at her, then surprised them both when he pulled her into a hug. After a moment, however, she returned the gesture. Jon was aware of a shift emerging, of change suddenly cresting at all sides. The wars to come would not be stopped in their journeys.

So, with Cersei’s letter in hand, Jon held his sister as best he could, given their strained history.

For the moment, it was enough.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapters are written for once--but for the last two episodes, obviously. I plan to post one a day, b/c fast and finished fics are fun! The last chapter will be up within a week after the season finale. 
> 
> Wish me luck in disciplining myself, and drop a kudos if you liked! It just feels good to put something up!


	2. Father's Sins (Stormborn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in episode 2: Upon meeting Melisandre of Asshai, Dany contemplates inviting a stranger to her home.

**Dany I**

The storm raged beyond the formidable walls of the castle. Nearly every inch of Dragonstone was fiercely carved into the likeness of dragons, and was thus aptly named--though drearily cold. Yet Daenerys had grown used to it fairly quickly. Although she felt the wicked draft in the throne room, her fingers weren’t even numb when she greeted the Red Priestess from _Asshai_ and welcomed her into her home. The woman was mild for her title, so Daenerys had no issues with listening to her words of prophecy. 

“The Prince Who Was Promised will bring the dawn?” She had to smile. “I’m afraid I’m not a prince.”

“Forgive me, your grace, but your translation is not quite accurate.” She turned to Missandei curiously. “That noun has no gender,” said her scribe. “So the correct translation for the prophecy is, The Prince or _Princess_ Who Was Promised will bring the dawn.”

Lord Tyrion huffed. “Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?”

“No,” Dany smiled, “but I like it better.” She turned to Melisandre of _Asshai_. “And you believe in this prophecy?"

The Red Priestess lowered her eyes demurely, then met Dany’s once again. “Prophecies are...dangerous things. I believe you have a role to play. As does another. The King in the North, Jon Snow.”

She felt the shift when Lord Tyrion started. “Jon Snow…? Ned Stark’s bastard?”

“You know him?” she asked, watching him carefully.

“I travelled with him to the Wall when he joined the Night’s Watch,” he answered. “He was smart, and I’d thought of him as a friend.”

 _Then why do you frown with uncertainty_ , she wondered. _Did he play too close to the edge of the Wall and give you a freight? Or perhaps it was you who misbehaved…_ Tyrion had probably pissed off the edge, knowing him.

“And why,” questioned Lord Varys, “do you think the Lord of Light singled out this Jon Snow—aside from the visions you’ve seen in the flames, that is?”

“As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he allowed the Wildlings south of the Wall to protect them from great danger. As King in the North, he has united those Wildlings with the Northern houses so together they may face their common enemy.”

Daenerys knew a threat when she heard one. Remembering her lessons in diplomacy, she said, “He sounds like quite a man.”

But Melisandre was a strange woman, even for a Red Priestess. When she smiled, it was in her eyes rather than her lips, but even they had lost the fire Dany had glimpsed in so many of R’hollor’s followers. She had been…humbled.

“Summon Jon Snow,” she suggested. “Let him stand before you and tell you the things that have happened to him. The things that he has seen with his own eyes.”

There was a quiet breath, before Lord Tyrion spoke again, carefully.

“I can’t speak to prophecy or—” He glanced to Melisandre uncertainly. “Visions in the flames. But I like Jon Snow, and I trusted him. And I am an excellent judge of character.” Though it was just a flicker, she had to smile. “If he does rule the North, he’ll make a valuable ally. The Lannisters executed his father and conspired to kill his brother. Jon Snow has even more reason to hate Cersei than you do.”

A moment passed as Daenerys thought it through. Even in the utter dimness of Dragonstone’s throne room, while a storm raged beyond the walls, the Red Priestess glowed unnaturally. However, Daenerys was familiar with such magic, so she was unafraid, even certain _._

“Very well,” she said to her Hand. “Send a raven North. Tell Jon Snow his Queen invites him to come to Dragonstone. And bend the knee.”

She didn’t stay to watch Lord Tyrion’s face fall. _He knows me well enough now, to know what I expect._ Whoever Jon Snow was, it was unlikely the man would travel so far to make her acquaintance. But Tyrion would see it done, one way or another. She fetched her favored _bloodrider,_ Qotho, to gather some men to fit a room for Melisandre and send her supper. Daenerys and her advisors then returned to the Chamber of the Painted Table to discuss a few more matters about unseating the False Queen. Soon after, they left. However, Daenerys stayed behind into the early hours of the morning, gazing into the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay.

She wondered if Aegon had felt this way on the eve of his conquest with his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys: uneasy, as if the expectation tightened on the skin with each breath. Even now, after all these years, in moments like these she wished for the comfort and guidance of another with her name. But her father had seen to the end of House Targaryen with his madness, and had passed it on to Viserys. If in their death, they were anything like the stars the _Dothraki_ believed passed loved ones to be, they were privy to Daenerys’ return. She had come to Dragonstone to begin her conquest. Soon, she would go to King’s Landing to build a throne from Aerys’s ashes.  

It was too bad, then, that the sins of her father still weighed their name down.

_Too bad, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come tomorrow. Thanks for reading!


	3. Wolf and Bear Alike (The Queen's Justice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in Episode 3: After meeting the King in the North, Dany learns something new about diplomacy.

**Dany II**

It was as if he didn’t know how to handle himself.

He had come to her, refusing to bend the knee to the rightful queen, calling her a child, using figurative language in a formal setting that most certainly _did not_ allow it, and most importantly, he spoke of myths—of Night’s Kings and an army of the dead. _How could have Lord Tyrion invited you to my home?_ She was nearly disgusted…but for the fact that, even among her ire, she could sense greatness in this handsome man.

In their brief introduction, thus far she had learned three solid truths about the King in the North: he was young as she was, had never gone south of the Neck until now, and was entirely _moved_ by the force of his emotion. Every word she said filtered into his ears and forced a reaction from him. The pursing of lips and clenching of hands; the flickering of coal black eyes to the floor, to the windows; and when they found hers, a weary heave of breath with his entire body. He was not uncontrolled; only passionate, though somber.

Daenerys stood still as a pillar with her hands clasped before her, watching it all play out.

She sensed that Jon Snow was not a man of many words, as well. _But what king keeps his gaze to the ground as his Hand describes his deeds?_ She eyed him fiercely, irritated by the cowed image he made. The more Ser Davos went on about Wildlings and the Night’s Watch, the more he seemed to sink into the floor, until his Hand said something he shouldn’t have. His gaze was sharp enough to interrupt Ser Davos’s impressive speech. When Dany shared glances with Lord Tyrion in the silence, however, her Hand didn’t seem to know any more than she did.

She looked to Jon Snow, but he still couldn’t meet her gaze. She wanted to throttle him.

Ser Davos continued. “If we don’t put aside our enmities and band together, we will die. And then it doesn’t matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne.”

Jon Snow was fiercely unhappy again, as if the phrase _Iron Throne_ spiked his ire. _I see you,_ Daenerys thought. _You grow impatient._

“If it doesn’t matter,” said Lord Tyrion, “then you might as well kneel. Swear your allegiance to Daenerys. Help her defeat my sister and together our armies will protect the North.”

“There’s no time for that,” he snapped, suddenly, hotly. “There’s no time for _any_ of this! While we stand here debating—”

“It takes no time to bend the knee. Pledge your sword to her cause—”

“And why would I do that? I mean, no offense – your grace.” He said the words like the insult he meant it as. “But I don’t know you. As far as I can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father’s name. And my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The lords of the North place their trust in me to lead them, and I will continue to do so as well as I can.”

A heated but quiet moment passed as Jon Snow’s anger scattered like waves in the Narrow Sea. Dany felt it, but it did not move her.

“That’s fair,” she replied simply. “It’s also fair to point out that I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself king of the northern most kingdom, you are in open rebellion.”

His face fell. In that moment, Lord Varys entered the throne room, but she never removed her gaze from his, which once again found the floor. She listened to his urgent whispers, then nodded to him as he stepped away.

“You must forgive my manners,” she told Lord Snow and his Hand. “You must both be tired after your journey. We’ll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.”

To her first _bloodrider_ , Qotho, she ordered this of him. He nodded then left to do just that. She started climbing to Dragonstone’s throne, but stopped when Jon Snow’s voice sounded, startled and clipped.

“Am I your prisoner?”

After taking a breath, she turned over her shoulder just once. “Not yet.”

When she was halfway to the throne, the door closed behind the King in the North and his Hand. She exhaled shakily, coming down from the tense meeting. It was the most frustrating thing to happen to her since she sailed from _Meereen_ —and she knew it was on her face. After clearing her mind, she turned to her advisors.  

It was time to hear what Lord Varys had come to tell her.

 _____

 

 _Dragonglass_. He’d come to her for dragonglass. Daenerys couldn’t even be disappointed or upset; for she hadn’t expected the King in the North or any high lord to bend the knee so willingly, not when Cersei was another—though terrible—choice. Yet…she couldn’t help but feel the slightest irritation. _He’d come for dragonglass,_ she thought again. _Here’s hoping he finds it. For the sooner he does, the sooner we can reach common ground._

Maybe then he would bend the knee…

As Dany stared into the fire, she recalled the visage that Melisandre of _Assahi_ had made. The Red Priestess was a great beauty, like all that she had seen in _Essos,_ from _Volantis_ to _Meereen_. Even in the utterly dim light of the throne room, Daenerys’s well-trained eyes had seen the magic that flickered on the woman’s face like the fire of the Lord she worshipped. How such a powerful sorceress came to greatly respect Jon Snow was unknown to her. Yet it reminded her eerily…

She turned to Lord Tyrion again. “What was that Ser Davos said, about taking a knife in the heart for his people?”

“You must allow them their flights of fancy,” he said lightly. “It’s dreary in the North.”

 _You’ve spent your life in castles and palaces,_ she thought, frowning at him. _What did you know about exposure to cold desert nights and the unexplainable, until you were captured into slavery?_

“You know, Lord Tyrion, I believe that you and I have personalities that get along quite well. But there are things about you that irk me.”

“Well…” He paused. “As of late, you are no ray of sunshine…your grace.”

It was Dany’s turn to pause. But she had to smile. “I’ve seen brighter days.”

He inclined his head to her, then took a few steps around the Painted Table, before stopping at the outcrop of rock that marked Dragonstone. “House Targaryen’s words are _Fire and Blood_.”

She quirked a brow. “House Lannister’s words are _Hear Me Roar_.”

“They are,” he said, with a sheepish smile.

“I have heard your roar, Lord Tyrion. I wonder how many people you’ve surprised with it.”

He smiled gratefully, fingering the rings that populated his hands. Daenerys never stopped noticing the silver lion on his left middle finger. It angered her once more, but he must not have noticed, for he continued.

“House Stark’s words are _Winter is Coming_. The Starks always have and will always be right. You are a Summer child and you spent your life in _Essos._ You don’t know what Winter looks like.” He spread his short arms, yet his shadow cast them as wide as the room. “It is here now, only it is much worse than what we’ve seen since our arrival. And it lasts _years_.”

He moved to her, steps echoing on the stone floor.

“These will be the most challenging years of your life, Daenerys. Are you ready for it?”

 _Of course,_ she thought. _I am ready._

Yet when she returned to the flames, they said otherwise.

_____

 

The sun was especially bright for early morning. It reflected off the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea, glinting in odd patterns. Above, two of her children sailed in the air, crying out as they searched the waters for a feast. Yet Daenerys heard footsteps over their cries and even heard a pause before her guest continued down the path.

“Amazing thing to see.”

It was Lord Snow. _Jon Snow._ She was unsurprised, for it was about time they speak.

“I named them for my brothers, Viserys and Rhaegar. They’re gone, now.” She turned to him—and tried not to be surprised by his full garb. But he was _handsome._ Clad in fine dyed leathers and large furs, and a helping to a fresh bath, Jon Snow cleaned up well. “You lost two brothers, as well?”

One nod relayed his pain. She knew to move on.

“People thought dragons were gone forever but here they are. Perhaps we should all be examining what we think we know.”

He joined her at the lip of the battlements. “You’ve been talking to Tyrion.”

_Do you think I need your permission?_

“He is my Hand.”

“He enjoys talking.”

“We all enjoy what we’re good at,” she returned.

But he said the unexpected.

“I don’t.”

She glanced at him in surprise. He was gazing into the horizon, grim-faced enough to bring tears to a child’s eyes. It confused her, for she and Lord Tyrion did, indeed, love what they were good at. _It seems that you, however, are an outlier. Just what pain have you known, Lord Snow?_ Her fingers drummed on the smooth lip of the battlement as she mulled it over. She felt an urge to appeal to him, but even to her own ears, her words were curt. 

“You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne.”

He was unimpressed. “I never expected that you would.”

“And,” she raised a brow, “I haven’t changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to that throne.”

“I haven’t either.”

She looked away, and a moment passed, filled with the roaring waves below and the salt in the air. Daenerys didn’t have to look at Jon Snow to know he was gearing to leave, even though the direction of his gaze to the sea said otherwise. It was as if there was something quite large and tragic about this man. _Perhaps that is why I can read you,_ she mused. The questions were beginning to pique her interest too much. Figurative or no, what man took a knife in the heart for his people and lived to tell the tale? What man fought with creatures of myth and likely sported the scars and night terrors to prove it? _I have no proof of any of it,_ Daenerys thought. _And yet…_

“I will allow you to mine the dragonglass and forge weapons with it,” she said, turning to him. “Any supplies you need, I will provide for you.”

That was when his eyes changed. They were big and bright pits of the deepest gray, pressurized into coal and a man’s gratitude. That was why she wanted him gone.

Even before he said, “Thank you,” she had turned away.

But he stayed.

“So, you believe me, about the Night’s King and the army of the dead?”

The waves were loud. Lord Snow was louder. Though his earnestness was endearing, Daenerys wanted him gone. Her eyes were already elsewhere when she answered: “You had better get to work, Jon Snow.”

She sensed his disappointment as if it were her own. But he was not a child, so he wasted no time to leave her. When his steps sounded, she looked from the corner of her eye, then watched him retreat. He was bold, naïve and earnest. Most importantly, he was moved by more emotion than she’d seen in any king, lord or grace in _Essos_. Something within her stirred as he climbed the hill to the main keep. But he was in her home, eating her food, mining her dragonglass—if he could find it. It meant there was no game to play; Dany was beyond it, had left it behind in _Meereen_. She had a war to win and a country to fold back into peace.

Yet she couldn’t deny the obvious. Jon Snow was special.

She would keep her distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark my words: in the near future, Jon and Dany's meeting will be a fandom trope, a stage for canon divergence, character analysis...the list goes on. I CANNOT WAIT. 
> 
> Anyways, Jon's POV comes again next chapter. Thanks for reading!


	4. Dragonglass (The Spoils of War)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in Episode 4: Jon makes a discovery that could change everything. But dragonglass doesn't fix everything, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines have been altered for readability. I hope you enjoy!

**Jon II**

 

Even after he dismissed Ser Davos’s japes about staring and hearts, Jon could not stop wondering, almost desperately; for he knew the feelings she stirred within him to be true…

_What am I supposed to do?_

Now they had found Missandei of _Naath,_ halfway down one of Dragonstone’s many hills. The Queen’s scribe and most trusted advisor stood solemnly at the edge of the battlement, overlooking an expanse of sea _._ Though they had suddenly come upon her, she engaged Ser Davos with surprising willingness, if a bit of an edge. _Ser Davos is perhaps too chipper,_ he thought, _yet his tone does not explain your edge, my lady. What are you hiding from us?_

It wasn’t until he realized they were overlooking Blackwater Bay—and there on the horizon, King’s Landing—that he realized this foreign woman had something to lose in their war with Cersei Lannister. She was beautiful in a different way than her Queen: a tall woman of mid-deep tones, kind brown eyes and dark curls that sprung from her crown with enthusiasm. They reminded Jon of his own curls, but in the southern sunshine, hers seemed quite softer.

Even though Jon had lately been distracted by the duty to fulfill his kingdom’s needs, he’d remained observant enough to tell that her heart already belonged to someone, and she feared the loss of this love. How people managed to couple during such dire times, he felt he would never know, for he knew it to be true: _There’s no time for that._

After all, an entire fortnight had already passed since the King in the North had arrived on Dragonstone, and he was no closer to receiving the Queen’s aid. He needed to search the island for dragonglass; he needed to question her followers; most importantly, he needed to take every measured step possible, in the hopes of reaching an alliance with her.

Admitting that she was the North’s only chance did not make Jon happy. It was necessary, however, so he asked Missandei again.

“You mean to tell me that if you wanted to return to _Naath_ , she would let you?”

“Yes.” She was smiling, her eyes soft with something like faith. “She would give me a ship and wish me good fortune.”

“Why do you believe she would?”

“We don’t follow her because she’s the daughter of some king we never knew.” She raised a brow. “We follow her, because she is the queen we chose. Her grace is loved, and she loves in turn. Even if we weren’t at war and I sailed home…I would always return to her side.”

Even as Jon’s frown turned more skeptical, he could not deny the glowing feeling of hope in his chest.

“You are sisters,” he realized.

Her laugh was sudden and pleasant. “Her grace does not make sisters so easily. So, do not think of it as common. But yes, we are. From the moment we met, I knew Daenerys was a queen. She takes, she inspires, she builds.” She paused. “What do you do, King Jon?”

Her gaze was strong as she held his expectantly. Jon could say nothing. So, a long moment passed, filled with the sound of waves below, before Ser Davos chuckled.

“King Jon…” he said, as if trying out the words. “I think that’ll do.”

Jon glanced at him, glum. He was met with a smile.

_________________________

  

Their paired footsteps echoed in the ancient cave, bouncing off tight, cold air as Jon guided her from carved rock to rock. It was the yellowed, circular shapes thirty feet above that had stolen her attention, just as Jon thought it would. The sight was nearly holy to behold. _Nearly,_ for it could not compete with the way Daenerys glowed in the firelight of the torch he’d handed to her. Her breath was white. Her eyes were violet. Her silver-gold hair tumbled down her back in a long braid. The sight was so lovely it had rendered him speechless once again. He pressed his lips tightly closed as his fingers pressed to the flesh of her arm and guided her through the cave, until they reached the ghastly scratches upon the rock that had raised the likeness of the Others. 

He told her they must fight together, as the Children of the Forest and the First Men had. Yet even when she turned to him, pressing closer in the dark cave, Jon shuffled back a step before he remembered himself. He was unsure of what she would say.

“I will fight for you,” she vowed. “I will fight for the North.”

He breathed with relief, however, too soon; for she continued.

“When you bend the knee.”

 _I must be a fool to be_ _disappointed,_ he thought _. Though unsurprised._

“My people won’t accept a Southron ruler. Not after everything they’ve suffered.”

“They will if their king does,” she insisted, moving ever closer. “They chose you to lead them. They chose you to protect them. Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?”

Jon…did not know. He had once asked the same of Mance Rayder, before he died as the King-Beyond-the-Wall. For a moment, he wondered how Daenerys could remind him of yet another feeling he’d had, yet another overwhelming idea or experience—but remain before him, so aloof and untouchable. _What am I supposed to do?_ Jon’s hands fell at his sides, flexing with the sudden tightness in his chest.

“I would rather not tell you this,” he began. “It is who we are, our greatness and our weakness. But you must understand. _The North Remembers_. If I, their king as you say, were to head south and lose my kingdom and their lives to you… I would risk not only my life, but my sister’s, and the first breath of peace the North has had since my father was executed. I _won’t_ do that.”

The air sizzled as Daenerys stared at him, _hard._ He longed for her—even as his mind churned wildly with every reason not to do what his heart wanted most. When he finally caught himself, he tried to hide the feelings in his eyes. He would never know if it worked, however, for at that moment she turned and walked away with the torch.

She moved so quickly that the star-like eyes of the painted Others were beginning to glow eerily blue in the darkness once again, when Jon stirred from the shock of her rude exit. He quickly caught up to her, but she did not look at him. Just before they reached the area with the dragonglass, he took the torch from her with budding irritation, and even more separation. 

No one would have known, however. For, within moments they exited side by side and rejoined their advisors at the lip of the cave.

 

_________________________

 

Jon exchanged uncertain glances with Ser Davos as the Queen argued with Lord Tyrion. Commanding him and his Hand to stay as her small council fell to pieces made them more unwilling to do so. Jon had started glancing around, trying to tune out the cries of the dragons circling a league out above the ocean and Daenerys’s battle with her Hand. That was when he felt her heated gaze, once again.

“What do you think?”

“It’s not his place,” said Ser Davos, to which Jon agreed. “I ask you to leave us out of it, your grace.”

She refused as Jon knew she would, footsteps painting the beach with determination as she moved to him. “You see what’s become of Lord Tyrion’s plans,” she said in clipped tones. “I am at war. I am _losing_. What do you think I should do?”

Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys casted cautious eyes on his hands, their anxiety growing wilder as she drew the distance between them to a final close.

“I couldn’t presume to…”

But she would not have it—and he was suddenly _bowed_ by her beauty and her will. As Jon pondered the correct words to say to this woman who was good of heart but plagued with fire just below the skin, he was aware of the commonfolk that had bunkered down in King’s Landing after the cruel inception of Cersei’s reign. If their fates changed from one wicked hand to another, they were doomed before the Night’s King could even set eyes on them.

“I never thought that dragons would exist again,” he began. “No one did. The people who follow you know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe you can make _other_ impossible things happen. Build a world that’s different than the shit one they’ve always known.” He pointed to the dragons circling above the sea. “But if you use them to melt castles and burn cities, you’re not different. You’re just more of the same.”

She stared so hard he thought he’d woken her ire again…but her gaze was wet. _You are hurt._ Jon tilted his head down, eyeing her. _But you can bare the truth._

Her gaze tracked to Missandei, then Lord Varys, then back to him.

“I will take _Drogon_.”

Her advisors stirred. “Your grace—”

“Not to the Red Keep.” She eyed Lord Tyrion. “Jaime Lannister has already left to deliver the Tyrell gold to King’s Landing. Highgarden is where I shall find him.”

There was nothing to say. Her eyes were lit with flame, pink fingers snapping with her restlessness and determination.

“Return to the Drum Tower,” she ordered. “Gather all of my _bloodriders_. Lord Tyrion will lead them to Highgarden. Lord Snow, Ser Davos, help Missandei prepare the castle for whatever may come while I’m gone.” She eyed Jon. “You came to me in the middle of a war, so the time has come to protect the dragonglass you traveled so far to mine. Do your best.” She nodded to the others in gratitude. “I am leaving.”

Within moments they left her a dozen paces behind at the shore. Walking away was one of the hardest things Jon had had to do since arriving on Dragonstone—yet even among all the feelings she stirred within him, he did not know why. He felt twisted up inside; irritated; disappointed; angry. _Vulnerable,_ he realized with a curse. _By the Gods._

Suddenly her voice carried to their ears, as she cried out for the black dragon. When their haphazard party reached the steps of the first hill, the dragon had arrived. Halfway up the hill, Jon glanced behind only once, to see _Drogon_ flying fast into thick clouds—and a queen’s small frame tucked behind his shoulder blade.

Jon shook his head halfway to the main keep, at which point Ser Davos stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. His voice was mirthful, but his eyes were sincere.

“Do that anymore and you’ll break your damn neck, lad.”

Jon said nothing.

“She will be alright,” he insisted. “She’s done this many times.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He left his Hand behind and climbed until, just before the horizon, he spotted a lone ship sailing into Dragonstone’s waters. Theon Greyjoy’s sudden return into his life was more than enough to channel his ire into. When he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck—he thought of poor Bran and Rickon—then what he’d done for Sansa, and he released him on the silent promise to kill him, should he ever cross the Starks again. Jon had even forgotten about the Dragon Queen until Theon asked for her. 

To which he said, “She’s not here.”

His hands were trembling as he shook his head yet again.

_Maybe she never was._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out way angstier than I'd planned. I almost feel bad--but idk, it felt like things had really soured for Jon by the time Dany left for the loot train. They really should have stayed in that cave, huh?  
> P.S., Vulnerability is a good thing to me. Don't listen to angsty Jon. He's just a bit overwhelmed.
> 
> Another Jon POV for "Eastwatch," where things get fun again b/w our babes. Then Dany POV for "Beyond the Wall". For the finale, something special will come.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Stay tuned!


	5. The Last King of Winter (Eastwatch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in Episode 5: Just when circumstances begin to look up, new matters fall into Jon’s lap. Daenerys won’t let him go. All the same, he must leave.

**Jon III**

The sight was nearly eerie, though one he was sure to never forget. She was a small, pale thing in dyed hues next to the image of her three dragons just before them. Her voice was even too small for the cliff she had landed on with _Drogon,_ swallowed by the gush of wind—and course, by the plumes of air her dragon kicked up as he flew off. Yet it was Jon who felt foolish as he strained to hear her clipped reply to his truth.

He was still shaking from the sudden encounter with _Drogon._ His left palm was still warm with the memory of heated scales and the large red eye that had trained on him. _Forgive me for calling them beasts,_ he thought. _Yet how am I wrong?_

“They’re not beasts to me,” Daenerys said, watching _Drogon_ fly to meet the other two, where they sailed above the castle. “No matter how large they get or terrifying to everyone else. _They’re my children_.”

Jon didn’t know her. But in that moment, he caught a glimpse of who she’d been and how she came to be the woman before him now. There was something endlessly powerful about Daenerys Targaryen. Yet in moments like these—when she was fresh from a battle won with dragonfire, her silver-gold hair twisting in the wind down her back, with the flush of a mother’s pride at her cheeks—Jon _saw_ her. When his heart lurched in his chest, he knew his feelings for certain.

_It is love._

But there was no time for that, so he had to pretend until it was true.

“You weren’t gone long.”

“No,” she replied.

“And?”

“And I have fewer enemies today than I did yesterday.” A moment passed as he said nothing. “You’re not sure how you feel about that.”

“No,” he frowned. “I’m not.”

Another moment passed, then she started walking from the edge of the cliff. “How many men did your army kill,” she asked, “taking Winterfell back from the Boltons?”

Though he hesitated, he started walking with her before he knew what he was doing. They stepped through withered grass and climbed perilous sheets of limestone. The coppery scent of blood was nearly fresh when he answered, “Thousands.”

“We both want to help people,” Daenerys reasoned. “We can only help them from a position of strength. Sometimes strength is terrible.”

Though Jon could hear the saddened lilt in her tone, he had nothing to say. The strength of others he’d known had either been terrible or naïve; while his strength caused desperate questions about life and death, right and wrong. Was there ever another option? _I may never know_. What he cared more about, however, was the Queen’s sudden talkative mood.  

“When you first came here—” She stopped him with a gloved hand on the arm and turned to him. “Ser Davos said you took a knife in the heart for your people.”

Jon was aware that if he’d been another person in another time, he would have laughed at the absurdness of it all. With things as they were, however, he could only recall the twitches of life that had rocked his body the first few weeks after his resurrection. On the best days, he could get on without thinking of his wounds. On the worst days, he did everything he could to forget their abortive pain. Most days he handled it well, as he had when he made Ser Davos swear to never mention what he had seen in company nor in private. Jon was not ashamed; only endlessly confused by R’hllor’s choice.

Today, however, he was at his best, so he was prepared to give her the answer they all needed.

“Ser Davos gets carried away.”

Yet she was unimpressed. “So, it was a figure of speech.”

He was a fool to pause; to think, even for a moment, of letting the truth spill out of his mouth and into her hands. But her violet eyes were so earnest and honest. Sansa had never asked. Jon never talked about it. Even Tormund knew to leave it alone. Who was the Dragon Queen, then, to pick up on a minor detail in conversation and question the cover-up?

 _Most importantly,_ he thought _, why do you care?_

The answer tingled in his left palm, at the back of his mind, in the sudden strain of his heart. He would never truly know, however, for the sudden interruption that took their attention. Qotho came upon them, once again leading the charge of the Queen’s favored _bloodriders_. He was large enough to obscure the man behind him, until he allowed him to step forth.

Jon knew a fighting man when he saw one. This one was grizzled with age and countless battles. His posture pitched forward, as if he waited to kneel to Daenerys, and his eyes were bright when he finally saw her. Jon didn’t have to look at Daenerys to know she would be moved by this man’s sudden presence. However, when he saw her smile—for the first time—his disappointment couldn’t even shroud his awe.

The man kneeled. “Your grace.”

 _I see._ Jon eyed the man warily. _He is your friend._

 

_________________________

 

Jon had had enough. “I need to go home.”

“You said you don’t have enough men.”

He’d read the damn letter enough to know what to do. Arya was alive. Bran was alive. Even though Jon regretted missing their return to Winterfell, learning that Bran was a bloody _warg_ and had seen the Night’s King marching towards the Wall was enough to get him on the move. He had stayed at Dragonstone long enough. _Perhaps too long,_ he thought. _Busy trading glances and clipped words._ After a week of mining, he finally had enough dragonglass for the North. Now, he needed to go home. 

“We will fight with the men we have,” Jon braced, “unless you wish to add your army to ours?”

The Queen scoffed. “And give the country to Cersei? As soon as I march away she marches in.”

“Perhaps not.”

Everyone turned to Lord Tyrion. But Jon watched Daenerys, noting the high gleam as she eyed her Hand fiercely. It was _fire._ She likely wanted no more of his failed plans.

“The army of the dead is nothing but stories made up by wet nurses to frighten children,” Lord Tyrion continued, moving from the arm of Dorne to the Crownlands. “What if we prove her wrong?”

Jon had to chuckle. “Don’t think she’ll come see the dead at my invitation.”

“So, bring the dead to her.”

“I thought that was what we were trying to avoid,” Daenerys questioned. 

Lord Tyrion turned to Jon again, who was frowning skeptically. “You don’t have to bring the whole army. One soldier will do.”

Jon eyed Aegon’s Painted Table yet again, with different eyes. The frosted ridges of the Wall were remote…but further down, King’s Landing didn’t seem so far.

Ser Davos shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

But Jon was thinking— _fast_. “First wight I ever saw was brought into Castle Black from Beyond the Wall.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Lord Tyrion. “Bring one of these things down to King’s Landing and show her the truth.”

“Anything you bring back,” said Lord Varys, “will be useless. Unless Cersei grants us an audience that is somehow convinced not to murder us the moment we set foot in the capital.”

“The only person she listens to is Jaime. He might listen to me.”

A moment passed as everyone looked to each other, searching for certainty.

“And how would you get into King’s Landing?” Daenerys snapped, gesturing to the outcrop of the city.

All heads turned to Ser Davos, who sighed. “I can smuggle you in. But if the gold cloaks were to recognize you, I’m warning you, I’m not a fighter.”

“Well, it’ll mean nothing if we don’t _have_ one of these dead men.”

“Fair point. How do you propose we find one?” Lord Varys asked Jon.

He took a breath as his eyes found the Wall again. Just a sheet of rock two-inches wide designated the land Beyond the Wall. _Tormund had called it the Real North,_ thought Jon. _Ygritte, too. Every Free Folk I ever knew._ Now only the dead were up there, marching ever closer… Daenerys’ gaze made it no easier to find an answer.

But when it was gone, Jon noticed.

“With the Queen’s permission, I’ll go north and take one.”

 _Ser Jorah…_ Jon heard it in her silence, saw it in her eyes as she twisted in her seat to see him. _Why?_

“You asked me to find a cure so I can serve you,” he told her. “Allow me to serve you.”

She would never stop surprising Jon. When the bearish but handsome knight came to her that morning, Jon realized how foolish he had been, to think he’d had her all to himself. (Well, he’d almost gotten used to her.) But now, Ser Jorah was plastered to her flank as if he had never left. Jon didn’t want to guess at the depth of their bond, nor the things they’d done and seen together. What he could not avoid, however, was the truth that before Missandei, it was _Ser Jorah_ who’d been the Queen’s most trusted advisor.

What was Jon, then, if he felt to be on the outside looking in? The answer angered him too much to pursue it. He focused on the task at hand.

“The Free Folk will help us,” he said, catching the knight’s gaze. “They know the Real North better than anyone.”

Ser Davos shook his head. “They won’t follow Ser Jorah.”

“ _They won’t have to_.”

Jon knew the reactions he would get when the words were out. Yet he suddenly felt himself sinking into the stone floor when the room fell silent, timid as the day he was born. A breath later it came again, right at him. _Fire_. Daenerys was fire made flesh, indeed, but why did unshed tears come to her eyes?  _I have no name and I have no crown. It will never matter if Spring doesn’t come,_ he reasoned _. So don’t question me. Simply let me do what I’m best at._ He had been frozen cold for years and would likely freeze again to fetch the bloody wight--if it meant a parley with Cersei Lannister and in the end, obtaining the men they needed to _fight_.

“You can’t lead a raid Beyond the Wall,” Ser Davos insisted hotly. “You’re not in the Night’s Watch anymore. You’re _King in the North_.”

“And the only one here who has fought them,” Jon reasoned. “The only one here who knows them.”

But as always, the Dragon Queen had her own desires. “I haven’t given you permission to leave.”

This, he would have no issue replying to. Thumbing the ridge of rock that led to the Shivering Sea, he met her violet gaze.

“With respect, your grace, I don’t need your permission. I am a king.” She took a breath he could feel from the other end of the hall. Jon pushed on. “Now I came here, knowing that you could behead me and burn me with your dragons, alive. I put my trust in you, a stranger, because I knew it was the best chance for my people. For _all_ our people. I’m asking you to put your trust in a stranger, because this is our best chance.”

It was a battle of wits, a battle of gazes, once more. Jon stood strong until she lowered her gaze in assent. Weary to the bone, he heaved a breath with his whole body. Then unexpectedly, Ser Jorah nodded to him.

Jon frowned.

_________________________

 

The night had been cold, but the next morning fared no better. The salty air was dangerously tight in his lungs. However, the sun shone brightly, which was merciful. Even the wind was favorable for their journey ahead. In all, things were doable— but for the fact that she was hugging him.

 _How strange,_ Jon mused, as he neared the pair. _Such a bearish man embraced by such a small woman._ Yet it was the softness between them that, once again, made Jon’s steps drag in the sand. Even though he tried not to hear, their whispers carried on the wind.

“I have missed you,” said Daenerys. “To think, you’ve returned stronger than ever. Better than ever.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Ser Jorah bowed his head deeply. “Some days I still can’t believe I’ve been cured. It is a wonder I won’t ever truly understand.”

“Of course...” She nodded. “I must hear the details when you return. Have you missed me?”

He laughed. “Every day, _Khaleesi_.”

She took his hands again. “I will see you again, Ser Jorah.”

“You will… _Khaleesi_.”

Then Ser Jorah moved to the hull, and Jon came upon her. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness, her eyes brighter than he’d seen since they’d met. Jon did not like to jump to conclusions—yet he still wondered if the aged knight had ever been her lover. _Or hers, still._ Stranger things had happened. Stranger still, they would be, for if there was anything Jon knew for certain, it was the awe that her joy inspired. Jon no longer wondered what to do with his feelings.

Her violet eyes trained on him for the last time. As he slipped his gloves onto his hands, he inclined his head to her.

“If I don’t return,” he said, “you’ll finally be rid of the King in the North.”

Daenerys raised a brow coolly, lips turning up just slightly. “I’ve grown used to him.”

He wanted to smile but his lips wouldn’t move. The air had long turned sour from plenty of disagreements, her battle at Highgarden and Ser Jorah’s arrival. Jon knew to pretend he felt nothing, just as he knew there were no more words to be said, except for formality. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

He would not turn back when they boarded the hull or even when they reached the ship; for the mission ahead drew his chapter with the Dragon Queen to a close.

Yet his eyes lingered on hers, while regret stirred in his lungs. Tears came to her eyes again, but nothing had changed. They would never fall and he would never wipe them away.

She nodded once then let him go without another word. After checking in on Gendry Waters, he took his place at the front of the hull. Once all the men were settled, they pushed it into the water with a running start. Then they hopped in, leaving trails of ripples as they entered deeper water. The sound of the waves was already hypnotizing; the quiet descent of snow, soon to be, as well. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea called for him, so that was where he would go.

Jon did not turn back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm just going to accept that these chapters are getting longer, the more Jon and Dany interact. Let's just say that's what's happening! 
> 
> Two more to go! The big bag "Beyond the Wall" comes tomorrow in Dany's POV. Make sure to grab a tissue, for reasons high and low. Thanks for reading!


	6. One to Love (Beyond the Wall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in Episode 6: Daenerys gets a bad feeling/a foreboding letter about the mission Beyond the Wall. She goes to help, but loses a dear one in the process, while another is gravely injured. Who can love a dragon after all of this? A Queen finally learns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks. Apologies are in order. (But not for length!) Episode 6 moved me so much that I had a hard time whipping something up that I thought was good enough. Like, it was hard, because this is no easy love they share. (Wow, is it moving, though!) Here it is, so I hope you enjoy!

**Dany III**

 

“I must go, your grace. If you need me, please call for me. But, right now, I…need to be alone.”

Though she was stunned, Daenerys nodded. When the sound of Missadei’s footsteps disappeared, she moved to the Painted Table and eyed it from the top.

“Missandei fears losing him.”

“She is not wrong for that,” said Lord Tyrion, carefully. “But I am sure that Grey Worm lives, and all of the Unsullied you sent with him. They could not have run out of food yet.”

 _Enough with the assumptions. This parley with your sister doesn’t come soon enough, my lord._ Daenerys’s lips were pulled taught as she stared at the Painted Table. Her eyes kept tracking to the slither of rock above that denoted lands Beyond the Wall. It was literally uncharted territory; swaths of white desert. Jon Snow’s merry band of misfits could have been anywhere. _Enough time has passed without word from them,_ she worried. _He could even be dead._ Daenerys was frustrated. There was an eternal feeling that had followed her since his ship sailed away. It was as if Jon had been there, with her, in her all along. And she felt it when he was gone. 

“Do you know what I like about you?” she asked her Hand.

“I honestly don’t.”

She turned to him. He had taken a seat before the hearth. “You’re not a hero.”

“Oh,” he paused. “I’ve been heroic on occasion. I once charged at Mudgate on King’s Landing—”

“I don’t want you to be a hero. Heroes do stupid things and they die.” She joined him at the hearth and considered the fire. “Drogo. Daario. Jorah. Even this—“ Her lips stretched into a smile against her will. “— _Jon Snow_ … They all try to outdo each other. Who can do the stupidest, bravest thing.”

“It’s interesting, these heroes you name. Jorah. Daario. Even this— _Jon Snow_ …” She longed to wipe the smirk from his face. “They all fell in love with you.”

She scoffed. “Jon Snow’s not in love with me.”

“Oh, my mistake. I suppose he stares at you longingly because he’s hoping for a military alliance.”

 _Stares,_ she repeated. _Good_. Use of the present tense meant Jon wasn’t dead yet. But she wouldn’t hear of it, couldn’t even consider it. She would deflect if she must. But her words were not thought through.

“He’s too little for me.”

Lord Tyrion’s face fell, long and resigned, as if he’d heard such smart remarks every day of his life. Which of course, he had. 

“I didn’t mean—”

“As heroes go…he is quite little.”

Daenerys felt the urge to appeal to him. “I know you’re brave,” she said, taking the seat opposite him. “I wouldn’t have chosen a coward as my Hand.”

He smiled but it wasn’t sincere. Daenerys was unsurprised and unaffected, having grown quite used to the distance her and Lord Tyrion. What more could she do but change to the topic that had been on her mind for days? _The parley with Cersei Lannister must come. But I will only go to King’s Landing if I leave with my head…or sit on the Iron Throne, with hers in my lap._

She turned to Lord Tyrion again, hoping he would prove her right about him.

 

__________________

 

The morning was bright when the raven arrived. The wax seal of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was enough to tell her. Ser Davos’s words, written in Lord Commander Tollett’s rushed hand, only told Daenerys what she already knew. From there, the decision was almost perilously easy.

As soon as she came upon her dragons on their favored cliff, they stirred and shook their scales loose, blinking the sleep from their eyes. _Now,_ she groused, _if only I can shake Lord Tyrion lose, we would get somewhere._

“You can’t!” he protested, coming up behind her. “The most important person in the world can’t fly off to the most dangerous place in the world!”

“Who else can?”

“No one. Maybe the rest, but they left.”

Daenerys went over to _Drogon_ and petted him.

“You can’t win the Throne if you’re dead.”

She climbed onto _Drogon’s_ wing.

“ _You can’t break the wheel if you’re dead!”_

“So, what would you have me do?” she demanded.

“Nothing!” She could hear his throat tightening, his voice wobbling in the wind. “If you die…we’re all lost! Everyone. Everything.”

It had all been so sad, for weeks. Lord Tyrion was sad—every protesting, fearful inch of him. Even the sky was drizzling rain, waiting to turn to snow, to freeze the world to death. But Daenerys had dreams and the dragons they granted; she had fire, heat. Even at the moment, while she wept for the ones who could not fight for themselves—was her Hand one, as well?—she felt something amazing. As if something was buzzing under the skin. Daenerys was soaring, whereas Lord Tyrion remained far below. _I have outgrown you and your failed plans_ , she decided _. I will listen to you no longer._

“You told me to do nothing before and I listened to you,” she said. “I’m not doing nothing again.”

She secured herself on _Drogon’s_ back then commanded her children to fly. Within moments, they flew off into the sky, heading north. 

_Jon may be dead._

Even if he was, she would find him.

__________________

 

 _It’s dreary in the North._ Lord Tyrion had said so only weeks ago. Indeed, it was. Yet there was something about the snow that was endlessly beautiful. It reminded Daenerys of her visions in the House of the Undying. Her thoughts were soon trained on the massive wall of ice. In a breath, they had sailed over the top as if it was a mere blip. She passed the Haunted Forest. Then there was nothing but for… _What is it called?_ _Tundra?_ It was a white desert. Perhaps they were nearing the Lands of Always Winter? If anything, nothing had changed here for years.

Except there was not a soul to be found. Nothing living, anyway. The sight chilled her the way the cold never would. _Stay with me!_ She yelled to her children. They chirped and cried in reply. _Stay together!_ They cried again. She couldn’t quite speak their language, but she knew and they knew. It was enough.

Then finally, they had arrived. Daenerys’s breath hitched when she saw it: the mass of bodies and rattling bone was a blight upon the surface of the world. It was endless. _The dragons know,_ Ser Jorah had once told her.Even though it had been in a vision in the  _Dothraki Sea_ , the words remained true. They knew who they were, who she was. They always knew what to do, as well, so they wasted no time.

Plumes of fire ripped through the frigid air and ignited bone and hanging sinew, stripping blue eyes from their crazed faces. Contempt for the dead that wanted to spread their sickness roared in her chest. With great fierceness, Daenerys commanded her dragons to roast the whole lot. Minutes passed, and when they finally came upon a clearing in the center of the mass, she peered down.

Jon had already found her. She would have flushed with his gaze—but for the moment, she could only entertain the short wave of excitement that rushed through her. He was alive.

 _Drogon_ had already recognized the men, so he roasted the wights that were closing in on them then landed, then caught a dozen more that came upon them. He continued to clear the area while the men gathered themselves. One large one with a painful scar on his face threw a wriggling creature over his shoulder—what could only be the wight they fetched before things went to shit. The other men hesitated at the sight of her dragon, but Jon ran over. She reached down as he reached up—everything within her fluttering—but even the large sight of him in his furs didn’t make contact easy.

She couldn’t even laugh at her terrible japes, for another wave of screeches and rattling bone took their attention. Jon turned back and swung his Valyrian sword into the wight that came for him. He swung again, then again, dancing in a dizzying motion that could not possibly relay accuracy—yet it did. Each step took him further away until he was gone. The men climbed on. Daenerys could not speak, even to order them to hold tight. There was no time.

Jorah called for Jon. But he continued to beat them back. _Rhaegal_ was flying high a league east, burning the dead army. _Viserion_ was rounding to double back, then fly ahead to crash into them again. _Drogon_ busied himself burning the wights to his left; while Jon busied himself striking down the ones to _Drogon’s_ right. Daenerys heard the rattling again when the scarred man seated the struggling wight onto _Drogon’s_ back. Everyone was present, but for Jon.

That was when a dragon’s pained cry pierced the air. The flames that gave _Viserion_ life burst, consuming him with a fury he should have never known. His cry shook Daenerys’s foundation, as a flash of memories lit before her eyes. A torrent of blood spilled from _Viserion’s_ side as if it had never belonged. _Drogon_ trembled as he cried out for him. _Rhaegal_ , as well. But, silent with shock, Daenerys could only watch him fall. He crashed into the ice and sank, until his yellow eyes disappeared below the surface.

Daenerys had seen the weapon that had taken him and saw the direction it had come from. She needed to _see,_ but what she needed more was for Jon to return so they could escape with their lives.

Jon took down two more wights. Then he stopped. She followed his gaze, turning right over her shoulder, and she finally saw him. The crown of ice protruding from a blue skull; the piercing, star-like eyes; the will, the hatred. The Night’s King was surrounded by his men, their mounts and a small wall of dragonfire.

Jon started backing away. “Go! Go now! Leave!”

Daenerys wouldn’t leave; she believed in him. She knew he could make it. As he ran for _Drogon,_ he struck down two more wights. A breath later, three more came for him, crashing into him so hard they broke the ice and took Jon with them. Daenerys stared hard at the small pool, waiting for him to return. He seemed _invincible_. But a moment became two, then three…

Only a dozen yards behind them, the Night’s King was walking calmly through the dragonfire. He extinguished it with his steps, ready with another icy javelin in hand.

Daenerys gave him a look of pure hatred, as if it was enough to stop his plans. It would not, however, so the time had come to leave. She didn’t need to say a word; for, intent communicated to _Drogon_ enough. He took to the air, _Rhaegal_ following. But there was barely enough room for all men—so she wondered… _How could Jon have fit, as well, if Jorah nearly fell away to his death?_ They finally dragged Ser Jorah on and secured him. The flight back to the castle was blessedly short.

She didn’t bother to greet the men on _Drogon’s_ back, nor the Wildlings that held Eastwatch-by-the-Sea on Jon’s command. _I see you for what you are. I know you, Jon._ Thinking of him pained her, yet she urged him the best she could. _You are my equal. You are not dead._ As soon as they arrived, she climbed to the top of the Wall and eyed the Haunted Forest. She poised herself for his return at any moment, more hopeful than she could remember being in moons. When hours passed, however, the thought wouldn’t leave her.

_He could be dead._

“A moment longer,” she told Ser Jorah.

Then, suddenly, he broke through the thick of trees on horseback: a blip of black in a world of white.

 _How could I have wondered all these moons,_   _if_ _I can no longer feel?_

She should have known that she’d never forget flying. It was the best feeling of them all.

 

__________________

 

The buzz of battle left her at the Wall. Now, tucked into the east cabin of _Dark Sister,_ her heart twisted at the sight of Jon’s marks as his men stripped him of sodden furs and placed him in his feather bed. They were scars, even-- _wounds_. They looked fresh from the fight Beyond the Wall, yet they didn’t bleed. It was as if they were healed with the thinnest heated blade.

_Fire._

Her heart lurched, and she realized she’d been right all along. Indeed, there was something great and tragic about this man—this soul. _Have you died, then?_ The thought led to one more painful. _Had I not known, even when it happened? Had I not felt it…?_ Better yet, who was it that gave him renewed life? The Drowned God was said to extend life to Ironborn, so they may live out eternity in His watery halls. The Undying of _Qaarth_ had another power in Shade of the Evening. Whereas, the Lord of Light used fire and faith…

Her hands trembled at her sides, but she remained until Jon’s men had dried him off. When Ser Davos re-entered the cabin to lay a sheet of furs over him, she nodded to the knight and turned to leave.

“If you want to stay…”

She paused and met his gaze, stunned by the suggestion. He inclined his head to Jon, eyes finding the wound above his heart.

“He shouldn’t be alone when he wakes, your grace. And I think it would please him to see you.” 

She moved to his bedside and helped with the furs. He nodded to her in gratitude.

“Can I ask…?”

Ser Davos didn’t need to hear more to know what she meant. “He will wake,” he said. “Let him tell you, then.”

He bowed to her, then took his leave. She heaved a breath, then made herself comfortable for the long wait.

 

__________________ 

 

She would have stayed longer on the ship, even if Jon hadn’t woken so soon. All the same, she was so pleased that when he finally opened his eyes, her throat had already tightened. The air was tight and silent, yet filled with all the words Daenerys wished she’d said since she left Dragonstone. She fell quiet inside when his voice rose, rough with disuse.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “I’m so sorry.”

Daenerys couldn’t speak. She could only breathe, wading through her pain at the thought of _Viserion._ Jon couldn’t have known how moved she was by his lamentation—she thought—until he took her hand. He fit his hand in hers and rested the pair on the feather bed. But his eyes never left her.

“I wish I could take it back. I wish we’d never gone.”

She was familiar enough with grief now to know the wrong causes and the right ones. “I don’t. If we hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have seen. You have to see it to know. Now I know.” She swallowed thickly. “The dragons are my children. They’re the only children I’ll ever have. Do you understand?”

She had told him once, when she’d returned from the Blackwater Rush; she wouldn’t tell him again, for it would hurt too much. Thankfully he nodded, small but meaningful, decisive. Why she chose to relay her biggest vulnerability in one breath—to entrust him with it—was unknown to her. Yet, even as she sighed and pulled her hand back into her lap, it had felt utterly _right._ Though tears had come to her eyes, she was emboldened.

“We are going to destroy the Night King and his army,” she vowed. “We will do it together. You have my word.”

He smiled and she saw it again. Jon’s eyes were of the deepest grey, pressurized into coal and a man’s gratitude.  “Thank you, Dany.”

“Dany.” She chuckled, surprised. “Who was the last person who called me that? I’m not sure, was it my brother?” She hummed at the memory of half-mad Viserys. “Not the kind of company you want to keep.”

“Alright. Not Dany.” His breath hung in the air. “How about my Queen? I’d bend the knee, but…”

Had she been in the mood, she would have laughed. However, their situation was entirely unamusing. Too much was at stake for a simple exchange of words. Daenerys had to know.

“What about those who swore allegiance to you?”

He said the unexpected.

“They’ll come to see you for what you are.”

Her breath hitched, pitched on the buzz that had come on before. _Again. And again._ Her tears spilled over before Jon Snow, and his kind eyes watched with quiet acceptance. _Who could love a dragon?_ She had wondered for so long, only to realize somewhere deep inside, she had _known._ Her hand was trembling when she took his, and she watched awe wash over his features. Although cold, his grip was firm and sure.

She smiled. “I hope I deserve it.”

“You do.”

There was something in his eyes, so strong she saw her own reflection. The fluttering in her heart had dropped to her stomach with it. _It is faith._ It was in his eyes, filling the space between them, in the brush of his thumb on her skin, the feel of his skin under hers; the glowing, rushing expansion in her chest. _It is love._ She would hope to feel this until her last breath. _Yet, what image could a dragon and a wolf make?_ The thought was almost silly…except for the tingle of rightness in her throat, etched on the back of her heart.

She had already discovered so much with Jon Snow. She knew the sight of his faith, the warm brush of his pure feelings. He was a handsome man, but he had never made a lovelier sight as he had then, soft yet sure with a man’s love. So why was her confidence shaken?

Daenerys pulled away gently. “You should get some rest.”

She didn’t need to look to know he was disappointed. Yet he was so caring as he closed his eyes and burrowed into his furs. How he had known his gaze was the cause—the _seeing_ to be the cause—she could not know. All the same, she left his bedside. Then with one last glance at the image he made, she closed the door behind her. The walk back to her cabin was quiet, though the ship was buzzing with activity. The muffled air followed her into her cabin, then with the closing of the door, it consumed her.

Daenerys stood just before the door and cried. She cried with the pain of a mother in grief, a conqueror in shock, a woman at the face of the most honest love. She cried until her sobs had spent themselves and her confused murmurings grew quiet. For the moment, there was no battle to fight, small council to meet nor questions to ponder. Daenerys was free to strip herself of her gown and smallclothes until she was bare enough for a bath. Next, she unwound as many braids as she could get to, before her arms started to tremble, spent. Then she crawled under her furs and closed her eyes.

When she woke, night had fallen and her tears had dried on her pillow. She woke to hunger, frigid air, and a knock at her door. She pushed herself to a seated position, eyeing it.

“Daenerys… It’s me, Jon.”

She blinked for a moment then stared at the door, unable to believe it. But this one to love was on the other side of her door, his voice quivering with the same element in her lungs. The high washed over her again, buzzing under the skin, making her tremble as she threw on a night gown. Then she moved to the door and pressed her ear to the aged wood, unable to see him just yet. He knew she was there. When he talked directly to her, she had never felt more blessed.

“May I speak with you?”

A moment passed, before the great door opened with a quiet squeak.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already know the finale is gonna do something mean to me, so I'm giving myself a week after it airs to post the last chapter. I'm doing something special for that, so hopefully it makes up for the time waiting. Thank you for your support and of course--for reading! Much love! <3
> 
> PS, I just couldn't have her refer to herself as Dany after that revelation about Viserys. At least, not in the chapter where she tells Jon not to call her that. (LMAO)


	7. The Secrets of Death (The Dragon and the Wolf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in the finale: After a parley with Queen Cersei, the stakes are high. But Jon and Dany are higher on their love. When they arrive at White Harbor, what do they meet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of slack to pick up from the show--many little holes that other characters fell through in different scenes--so it took a while to write this. I think the length can be forgiven, since the finale was 1/3 longer than normal. So, yeah! This picks up right where the last one ended. Thanks for reading!

**Jon & Dany**

***~*~*~*~*~***  

DANY 

She silently allowed Jon to enter her cabin. Then she shut the door and watched him walk over to the foot of her feather bed, where he seated himself at the edge. She took a deep breath, then joined him.

“Tell me about them. Your dragons.”

Arching a brow, she eyed his profile. “Haven’t you heard the myth of their birth?”

“Only the myth,” he said, turning his eyes on her. “I would know the truth, if it please you.”

Daenerys started. Jon was attempting to explain himself to her. He must have heard. _If he had, the entire ship did, as well_. _‘Tis why a woman mustn’t cry._ She frowned at him. _I was fine without your help, Lord Snow._

She had meant to say as much, but Jon was giving her that _open_ look again. He had strapped on a few mismatched Wilding furs to stave off the cold. It hadn’t seemed to work its effect yet, for the sheen at his brow and the pallid overtone to his skin. Yet Jon was undoubtedly present with her, breathing in every word she left unsaid. As if to prove her right, his lips suddenly turned up into a smile.

“That’s enough,” she admonished, stunned by the shock in her voice. “You didn’t need to come all this way to comfort me, especially since you are healing. _You nearly died._ ”

Gravely, he said, “I’m sorry about that, too.”

Her throat tightened. Daenerys could say nothing.

When she’d opened the door, she had offered closeness without realizing. After taking it, Jon now offered his own, watching her carefully. Over the years, Daenerys had grown used to being seen. But even when he was weary from recovery, Jon did something unknown to her. She nearly felt sick with it—until her belly growled, forcing an astonished chuckle.

Jon, however, laughed. It was deep and round, though straining in his frozen lungs. While she enjoyed the sound, she was reminded of his form disappearing below the ice; of the wounds buried below thick furs, close enough to touch. Such stories would cause fear in the hearts of small men. Daenerys, however, only felt more admiration.

“If you wish to know about my dragons, I will tell you. Then, if you’re well enough, we will gather our advisors and sup ourselves. Yes?”

“Aye,” he smiled, rare and marvelous. “We can do that.”

__________________ 

JON 

Jon had tried to release the tension in his shoulders for hours now. He rolled them, kneaded them, but it was no use. The tension had started in King’s Landing, ebbing and flowing with the status of their dealings with Cersei Lannister. It had then worsened with the sudden appearance of the Queen’s allies for her small council meeting. Now, Jon stood before Aegon’s massive Painted Table, suffering under the weight of unlikely gazes.

At Dragonstone’s dock, he had finally met the silent and sullen Grey Worm, and was privy to the careful reunion between him and Missandei of _Naath._ Theon had joined their party in the Drum Tower, as one half of Daenerys’s Greyjoy allies. He looked no better than he had when Jon had last seen him. _No better,_ thought Jon, _though more present._ He felt the gazes of their advisors as well, as he stared down the length of _Westeros_ from the northern end.

The morning was too new, for one to feel so weary.

“If we have the _Dothraki_ ride along the Kingsroad,” Jon said, trailing a finger along the rock, “they’ll arrive at Winterfell within the fortnight.”

“And the Unsullied?” asked Daenerys.

Jon raised his eyes to hers. _Would you really risk your whole lot in this fight?_ _Even after a heavy loss?_ Her gaze was bright and resolved. He looked down again, eyes trailing the span of sea from Blackwater Bay to the Bite. _I should have known._ Daenerys was a conqueror. If there was anyone left alive who knew how to return with as much, if not more, than what she came with—it was her. Remembering Theon’s small fleet, he answered.  

“We can sail with them to White Harbor, meet the _Dothraki_ here on the Kingsroad. Then ride together to Winterfell.”

There was a pause as Daenerys considered this. Jon was painfully aware of the tightness across his skin—that if he looked at her he wouldn’t be able to stop marveling. In fact, he couldn’t, so he saw when Ser Jorah’s rumbling voice took her attention.

“You should fly to Winterfell, your grace. Thousands fell fighting your father. It takes one angry man with a crossbow. He’ll see your silver hair on the Kingsroad and know that one well-placed bow will make him a hero. The man who killed the conqueror.”

Jon’s brows quirked with sudden realization. It was as if he stood to the side in secret: in every small council meeting, every post-battle negotiation and small dealing Daenerys Targaryen had ever had. Ser Jorah had been at her side nearly each time, helping mold her into the power before him. The two were such a well-made team it reminded Jon of what he and Robb could have been, in another life. Feelings of gratitude were so sudden he was sure they were misplaced. Shock, however, he could handle well.

“It’s your decision, your grace.” She met his eyes quizzically and he paused; smelling, tasting all things _heat._ “But if we’re gonna be allies in this war, it’s important for the Northern to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbor together, I think it sends a better message.”

Even with all of the _unwelcome_ gazes… Even with Ser Jorah’s defensive strategy still fresh … Jon’s heart wouldn’t stop racing. _Come with me,_ he thought, consciously fighting the urge to meet her at the other end of the table. _Don’t do what you’ve always done. Come with me._ There was a moment…and then suddenly it was, as if it had always been: The Agreement.

“I’m not coming to conquer the North,” she told Ser Jorah. “I’m coming to _save_ the North.” She turned to Jon, lips turning into a small smile. “We sail together.”

 _We will,_ he thought, as he nodded to her. Something was happening. Now they both knew, for certain. If anyone noticed, no one said a word. _Not that I would know._ All seemed to fade away when Daenerys heaved a breath, shivering with a chill Jon felt in his bones.

 _Daenerys._ He had been here before—though in this capacity, only once. During the lengthy hours, between Daenerys’s exit from his cabin and his hesitant knock on her door, the world had gone quiet—as if muffled with a feathered pillow. Anticipation buzzed under his skin again, cooling only when he pressed his fingers to the rock.

When he finally bothered to check their companions, he found Lord Tyrion to Daenerys’s right, watching her skeptically.

_____________ 

JON

For just a moment, the Drum Tower was lively, echoing with torchlight and heavy footsteps as the small council descended the tower’s winding staircases. Grey Worm and Missandei were the first to enter the throne room, speaking in hushed, Valyrian tones. Jon brought up the rear with only Ser Davos; Tyrion had stayed behind with the Queen and Theon had seemed to disappear, somewhere along the way.

“Are you comfortable, your grace?”

Jon frowned at his Hand. “What do you mean?” 

He was stopped with a firm hand, then stepped back, noting Ser Davos’s peering eyes. He watched Jon for a moment, then nodded to himself. Jon grew still, waiting for him to explain himself.

“When you return from haze the Queen has got you in, you and I need to talk, lad.”

_It is no one’s business, how we feel or what we do. Yet you question me…_

Perhaps Ser Davos had a point. There was a sense that he and Daenerys shouldn’t tumble into the adventure that called to them. There was an even greater sense that Jon _couldn’t_ do this, bogged down as he was by responsibility for the lives of the North. A simple bedding could run awry with barely a push of wind…

“Even when considering our experience, she knows politics better than you and I combined. Keep your little parts separate from the big ones, and I believe you will guide this _sail_ well. Do you understand?”

 _I am not a child,_ he groused, setting his jaw. _Nor a green boy._ Yet he Ser Davos’s point was made well enough, so he nodded curtly. Ser Davos clasped his hands at his back and bowed to Jon. Then he exited the throne room, leaving Jon to his struggling thoughts. A moment later footsteps descended the steps of the throne once more, alerting him to Theon’s sudden, skittering presence. 

The hesitance in Theon’s eyes told him everything he didn’t want to hear. His hands clenched at his sides, as he readied himself for the inevitable conversation.

_____________

DANY 

The great door was heavy in her hand as she held it open. The ship rocked quietly, swaying above and below, but Daenerys barely noticed how different things were this time. Though Jon’s deep eyes swam in uncertainty, they were bright. He looked strong and bold, like he fit well into skin—more than he ever had since the moment he arrived in her throne room. _Are you shaking?_ No, he was vibrating, trembling with the force that had brought him to her door twice, now.

The moment Daenerys stepped aside, Jon stepped into the cabin, holding her eyes as he shut the door. Even as her lips curled with desire, her breath quivered in her lungs and she found herself as immobile as he was. _We shouldn’t do this. But, how can we not?_  Not when he loved her, and she loved him.

The magnitude of the realization hit her again. Before her tears could fall, Jon’s hands had taken her face, thumbs wiping the streaks away. The touch was as tender as it was sudden, and it gave her pause, before she _remembered_ who he was. Her heart shook with the pulse of his lips as he pressed kisses down her cheeks, stopping at her lips. She wound her arms about his shoulders, holding tight, and he lifted her. Their kiss deepened on their stumbling trip to her feather bed. Breathless laughter filled the air as their hands reached for cloth, feeling for buttons and places to slip their fingers into.

Within moments they were bare, and they rolled onto her feather bed. Daenerys was hot and coiled tight, burning below the skin, unraveling with the heat pooling between her legs. She urged Jon under her, kissing him sweetly, riding the crest of his thigh if only to break the urgency for a moment. He kissed her sweetly, like he couldn’t believe it, and cherished her with every brush of his lips, the insistent hand at her neck holding her crown. She breathed him in, sucking his love down where it mingled with her own, and gave as good as she got. There was a shift, when a brush became a caress, the closing distance grew flush, fingers growing wet with her desire, the opening, the sudden fullness. She tilted her head back with a silent moan as a firm hand held her thigh down, fingertips skimming flushed pools of skin with quiet awe.

He filled her, so hot and hard and deep, but it was her heart that broke open with his gratitude. She absorbed every thrust—swallowed his cries as he swallowed hers, licking them up from her lips, the tip of her nose, a kiss at the brow. There was a shift when he paused, and she opened her eyes, gazing into his.

The sudden mundanity of this event was shocking. Everything was entirely _normal_ about it; as if they had done this dance before. In such a short time, they had discovered so much together, and with more to learn, each step brought them closer...until they collided. As if they were separate wholes coming together to make a new one. _I’ve seen you before,_ she realized, shivering at the brush of his thumb at her cheekbone _._ He flickered in the shadows, handsome and open and strong. _I have dreamt of you for years. And now you are mine, as I am yours._ She smiled at the joyful curl of his lips—and held Jon close as he pressed his smiling lips to her neck, slowly pumping his hips to meet hers.

Where their breathless laughs filled the frigid air, ice and fire met.

_____________

JON 

“I feel better.”

Daenerys’s voice was warm with a woman’s release, though muffled. She lay on her front, peering at him over the shoulder, where she’d buried her face in the sheets. He was rubbing a hand down her back, but paused to laugh.

“Don’t you, as well?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Aye, I feel very good. As if I am…fresh.” Even when shook his head, he felt loose and light. “Why was I nervous?”

She turned over and raised herself to a seated position. It was wonderful to see her in such an intimate state, with half of her many braids unwound, the flush of fresh lovemaking at her lips, revealing all her softness…and there, the scent of a woman. Jon licked his lips, and she exhaled shakily. When she went to her knees and took his hand, his heart lurched so suddenly he swallowed to settle it.

“You were nervous because I am your Queen.”

She took his hands, and he followed her desires: he dragged them down her soft side, shuffling closer. As she trailed her fingertips over his shoulders and into his curls, her voice was soft, violet eyes bright in the candlelight.

“I brought you to my bed because you are important to me. You may have bent the knee, Jon, but you remain a king.” Her eyes grew quiet. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you…that you’re the only one I will ever have?”

Jon didn’t have to guess at the magnitude of her words; for, after all these moons, he knew Daenerys Targaryen well enough. He couldn’t even fall back into his humble nature and doubt her certainty—for he knew her words to be true. _I am hers, she is mine._ He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing deeply.

“No, you don’t.”

Even among his awe and gratitude—and the tingle dancing on the back of his heart—Jon felt foolish for wondering how people could couple at such dire times. Then again…he and Daenerys were nothing ordinary. The thought comforted him, yet in the end, he knew: if love was at the doorstep, he would knock every time before entering. But he would always enter, and Daenerys would always be on the other side. 

______________

DANY

According to the maesters of the Citadel, the weather patterns on the Narrow Sea had reached the quiet period, between Autumn and Winter storms. So, the weather had been fairly mild for _Dark Sister’s_ short voyage from Blackwater Bay, up the east coast of the Vale, and into the rushing waters of the Bite. They had landed in three days.

When the city finally came into view, Daenerys was reminded of the glimpses she’d gotten of the Red Keep, from the western edge of Dragonstone’s many hills. White Harbor was aptly named: built with white limestone, the harbor city was bright in daylight, especially New Castle’s peak, but even the docks were lively with merchants, courtiers and unsupervised children. _White Harbor is the mouth of the North._ Indeed, it was. _Which makes Winterfell the heart of the North._ She wondered how Jon would reflect his home and more importantly, move in it. If it was near to how she felt when her steps echoed throughout Dragonstone, he was sure to make an admirable image.

As they finally stepped onto the docks, Daenerys repeated the words to herself again. _Strength is sometimes necessary and sometimes terrible. Although diplomacy can expire, the ride is quite enjoyable._ She glanced over her shoulder, noting their unlikely band of advisors—Lord Tyrion, Missandei, Ser Jorah, Ser Davos—and allowed a smirk. Her host of Unsullied were to stay on the ships until she received word from Lord Wyman Manderly to pass through.

Jon assured her the lord would allow them to pass, for he was the King in the North and their mission involved preserving the lives of his people. His plan was solid enough, but there was something in the air—beyond the heavy snowfall—that was not quite right.

“What are his titles?”

“Do you want to know all of them?” Jon asked, glancing at her.

She quirked a brow. “Tell me your favorite one.”

“Defender of the Dispossessed _._ ”

 _Sounds familiar,_ she mused. _What shall your titles be, when this is over?_ As intriguing as the thought was, it led to some more bitter. There were two letters on her desk, back on her ship. Cersei Lannister had personally penned them to the rulers of several Houses. Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell and Lord Petyr Baelish, the Lord Protector of the Vale. The letter for Lord Manderly was tucked safely in Lord Tyrion’s pocket. It would seem, however, that he would have to hand it to him far before anyone could have guessed.

No more than half a league from the docks, they were met with a thick wall of the city’s fighting men. When Daenerys’s small group came upon them, they parted at the middle to reveal five knights clad in boiled leather and sealskins dyed blue. They struck their strange, pointed tridents into the ground as they parted, revealing the plump and flushed Lord of White Harbor. Missandei didn’t even have the time to announce her.

“Your graces,” he said, bowing deeply. “Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen and King Jon of House Stark. It pleases me to welcome you to White Harbor.”

A quiet moment passed, filled only with the sounds of knights and city watchmen, ordering to commonfolk to continue with their business. Daenerys bristled at the harsh treatment, but she was even more suspicious of Lord Manderly’s unexpected departure from decorum.

“My lord,” she said, inclining her head. “We thank you for seeing us.”

Yet Jon was only half was miffed as she was. When Lord Wyman stepped forward, Jon shook his hand amiably. Daenerys watched their exchange with careful eyes.

“You and I met a long time ago, Jon Snow. Yet I couldn’t forget you _._ ” His hand landed heavily on Jon’s shoulder. “Let me get a good look at you… Now, you don’t have the look of your lord father, much…but it’s all there. I haven’t seen a Stark in _years._ ”

Jon dipped his head, then shuffled aside, loosening Lord Wyman’s grip. “You would have never seen a Stark again, if not for Sansa.”

“Aye, your sister holds Winterfell.” He hummed. “Are you aware of Lord Baelish’s death? I suspect not.”

Daenerys and Jon glanced at each other—yet she was fully aware of Lord Wyman’s observant gaze. Before they could say anything, he continued in hushed tones.

“I wanted to meet your host at the docks and bring you to New Castle, myself. The streets are safe now, but come nightfall it shall not be.”

Glancing around, she asked, “Why is that?”

Even her shoulder, casually pressed to Jon’s side, was enough to belay their closeness—and she knew he saw it. Jon knew it, as well, and was no less pleased than she was. Lord Wyman was a cunning threat Daenerys had not seen in some time; not at all weak or foolish, as she was aware many with half a mind would think for his size.

“I suppose you weren’t aware of the hell that has been unleashed upon the realm in mere _days.”_ When he glanced over their heads, she knew he eyed her ship. “We received reports of the _things_ King Jon has been known to speak of in his court. Castle Black, Last Hearth and Karhold have all declared the same: Eastwatch-by-the-Sea is gone and the Wall has fallen. At first, we were doubtful. When we sent their ravens back, however, we received no replies.”

 _No._ Enough time couldn’t have passed for the army of the dead to reach the Wall. _And yet…_ Had their sacrifices been for nothing? Had they been foolish in their endeavors? Had they simply waited too long?

“Now, what protection can the Lord of White Harbor obtain, when his King has sailed south and the Lady of Winterfell has struck down the Lord Protector of the Vale? _Har!_ What council can the Lord of White Harbor even take in these dire times, with no leadership and no allies?”

Daenerys had heard enough. “My lord, I don’t know what you presume—”

“I presume nothing, Dragon Queen.” Daenerys started, viscerally. “You are not my Queen. And you—” He said, cutting his eyes at Jon. “—Are hardly my King. I will protect my city without your help. You had better head for Winterfell as soon as you can. I will not stop you nor anyone, because I will make the order once I return to the castle. White Harbor will be evacuated.”

Jon had grown silent, in the way Daenerys had seen only once. He felt as foolish as she had. But she couldn’t tell who bore deeper wounds. She was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—yet even after escaping the clutches of the Night’s King and obtaining a successful parley with the False Queen, there still hadn’t been enough time. The thought of victory slipping from her grasp terrified her. Lord Manderly watched the shock melt into fear on their faces; then he began to step away, even as he continued.

“I’m no maester, but I have passed the age of sixty, and I’ve lost a wife and nearly lost both of my sons, twice. If there is one thing I know, it is this. The secrets of life are in those dead things. If you find it, we just may live to see Spring.”

He reached his carriage and climbed into it. “You may follow me to New Castle. If you choose not to, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

Then the closed the curtain to his carriage. Within moments his men turned it around and started their trek to the castle. The moment they were out of earshot, Daenerys turned to their advisors, and with some pointed nudging from Jon—whose eyes were simply _too_ far away—he joined. Their expressions were made ill with the _wrongness_ in the air. But Daenerys suspected they would have to grow used to it.

“We have no time to worry about what we lost,” she urged. “We make a plan, _now_ , and we stick to it. Ser Davos?”

He was watching his King carefully, with great concern. “We ride to Winterfell.”

“Lord Tyrion?”

He was uncertain, but determined. “I agree with Ser Davos.”

Daenerys looked to Ser Jorah, who took a deep breath.

“Winterfell, your grace. If they are heading there, we must go while we have the time.”

Nodding, she looked to Missandei.

“This is not the first battle I’ve followed you into,” she said. “It won’t be the last.”

Daenerys’s chest filled with her friend’s great love. It was enough to fuel her to face Jon. She didn’t need to ask him, for she already knew his answer. She found his arm below his cloak and caught his gaze, now steadying on her with determination. They were the Stark grey eyes, of ice and steel. Only Jon’s were deeper than any Stark that one could have known, spitting bits of coal to kindle the fire below Daenerys’s skin.

“We ride for Winterfell,” she vowed. “We will protect your brother and sisters. We will save the realm. _Together._ ”

He nodded. For the moment, it was enough.

Daenerys charged Ser Jorah and Missandei with returning to Grey Worm’s ship, so he may ready the Unsullied to dock. When they had finished the task, Daenerys, Jon and their advisors readied mounts from New Castle’s stable (which he gifted to them in gratitude for their continued efforts). Then they slipped through the city gates with Daenerys’s three-thousand Unsullied. The gates never closed.

All was muffled with heavy snowfall. Then suddenly, two leagues out the desperate flee of life grew audible, until Daenerys was reminded of the years of chaos that had consumed _Astapor_ after her army killed the masters. That was when Jon brought this mount to stride abreast hers. With snow melting in his hair, he had never looked more like himself. They exchanged nods, and then he reached over and kissed her. It was mere a bumping, cold press of lips, but it warmed them deeply.

“Now is not the time,” he said, straining to be heard above the wind, “but it may never come so I must tell you, Daenerys.”

“I know,” she said. “I feel the same. Remember what I said, Jon. _You are my King._ ”

He seemed stunned, before he nodded to her.  

“When this is over, I’ll need you to come back to me. Can you do that?”

“I think I can, your grace. And I will, always.”

A smile played at her lips, even as she gazed into a wall of snow. They were riding into the storm, with many more to come. Yet Daenerys felt quite good, for she would have her home beside her.

_Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks! Thank you to everyone who read, gave kudos, and commented! This was a blast. I hope the ending was satisfying. Let me know! 
> 
> PS...White Harbor is my favorite city in Westeros, probably b/c of Davos's chapters there in ADWD. But Gulltown sounds pretty chill, like a good place to make an honest living. Well, I am VERY excited for Jon and Dany to visit White Harbor in season 8, even if for a moment. Here's hoping Wyman Manderly is a bit more accommodating...
> 
> Much love!


End file.
